


you can call me queen bee

by leapylion3



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Emotional Constipation, Family Dynamics, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Gen, Insecurity, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leapylion3/pseuds/leapylion3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sat down with all the grace she could muster, following all the instructions he’d given her throughout the years. <em>Ankles crossed, back straight, chin up, eyes forward.</em> The iron was cold on her wrists and fingertips, but she did not flinch. She had to make her father proud.</p><p>A queen does not cut herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can call me queen bee

**Author's Note:**

> really short drabble written in the car on my way home
> 
> title from Royals by Lorde
> 
> prompt: _A queen does not cut herself. King Stannis has his daughter practice sitting on the Iron Throne._

He’d drilled proper techniques into her brain ever since she was a young girl, scolding and praising her in the same tone he always used with her. It was as if he was constantly bored, disappointed in what she was. “Sit straight,” he would say. “Shoulders back, chin up.” Shireen secretly whispered to Ser Davos that there was no need for a septa, not when she had her father.

The throne was bigger than she’d thought, glaring down at her like a monster from her nightmares. Every step she took echoed in the empty room, mimicking the beating of her heart. It looked so...different up close, as if every time she’d seen it before had been nothing more than an illusion. There was nothing romantic about it, nothing like the magnificent thrones in the songs. But life was not a song; she’d learnt that a long time ago.

The iron was cold and biting, swords curling and looming over her. Tentatively, she looked up at them, imagining all the stories behind them. Hundreds of swords, melted down into...she thought of it as nothing. It was nothing more than a chair, built upon war and destruction, and perhaps they would have been better off without it. Perhaps they didn’t need it at all.

“Well, go on,” her father’s voice boomed. “It will be yours one day. It is best you get used to it. I know it took me awhile; I kept cutting myself.” Her father was not a funny man, though she appreciated his attempt at humour.

“I don’t want it.” She licked her lips. “Not now. I’m far too young.” She would do her best to be a good queen, maybe even be a great one. But she was fifteen, and scarcely knew how to rule. She would sit in on her father’s council meetings once in awhile, would attend court affairs, but she was young. She was _afraid_.

Her father put his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her forward. “You need not be afraid.” Slowly, she walked up the steps, with her father only a pace behind her. “It’s just a chair, that’s all it is. Remember that.” _A chair that you almost died for_. She kept her mouth shut.

She sat down with all the grace she could muster, following all the instructions he’d given her throughout the years. _Ankles crossed, back straight, chin up, eyes forward_. The iron was cold on her wrists and fingertips, but she did not flinch. She had to make her father proud.

“Good.” It was the first compliment he’d given her in years.

The scales on her face and neck matched the colour of the throne. It was almost…fitting, she thought. She, too, was made of iron, and had been hardened throughout the war. The ugly grey girl was sitting on the ugly grey throne, and she would soon rule over the kingdoms. She had learnt that beauty was often a lie.

She did not cut herself; a queen did not cut herself. She saw pride in her father’s eyes for the first time, and she could have sworn that he smiled. He offered his hand and helped her off the throne and down the steps, like a gracious knight would. She felt like a true lady, and stood a little taller. She remembered the stories Ser Davos had told her, how the throne chose those to sit upon it, and they would not get cut.

Her father pressed his lips to her head and squeezed her hand. He led her out of the room with a hand on the small of her back, protective and reassuring. His rare affections were worth more than crowns or gold or lands.

She was not queen yet, but she was her father’s daughter.      


End file.
